Wednesday, May 30, 2007

what if we didn't call it a leash...

For more thoughts on the zoo adventure, check out today's Culture Blog, deemed by Eve as my most "horrifyingly offensive one yet"...

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

"i'm getting my tubes tied..."

I have no idea what the rest of you did on Memorial Day, but I had the Zoo covered. The high (or low point, depending on how you look at it) was when Laura, Mikey and I found ourselves sitting in the Leaping Lemur Rotunda (for the third time of the afternoon), the only locale in the San Francisco Zoo serving booze. Our long day of driving all over the city, from a huge brunch at The Ramp to my car at Lil’s, then back to our hood where we then decided to head to the ocean and stare at imprisoned animals, had taken it’s toll, both physically and mentally.
We lost it.
We were laughing so hard, I thought we might be asked to leave.
And here’s what I learned:
1. You only need to go to the zoo once every 10 years.
2. The Carousel is totally worth the $2.
3. Perhaps it’s just me, but I’d rather the animals be set free and we lock the kids up in cages...

Saturday, May 26, 2007

happy birthday eve...

Thursday night, I ventured back to the Tempest for Eve's birthday. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy intoducing Eve as "my editor." But even better than that, Eve is my brilliant and hilarious friend, one of the few people I will openly admit is smarter and funnier than pretty much anyone else.
And you can see pictures of her dive bar birthday at SFMike's blog RIGHT HERE.
Scroll down to see me being pushy. I have no idea what I was saying. Because I don't remember.
Happy Birthday Eve!

Thursday, May 24, 2007

you put your left foot in...

Someone's actually running against Gavin. And it's someone who I am less than 6 degrees from! Hold on. I'll back up.
So, Kate. You know Kate, right?
Kate used to date his son.
But more impressive than that, this newest candidate fronts the hottest band in town.
If you haven't had the pleasure of dancing the night away at the Olympic Club, then trust me, you're missing out on...
Tony Hall and the Hallmarks!
Seriously. I've bunny-hopped to this guy.
My vote is already so torn.
By the way, if Kate read my blog, she'd kill me...

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

flower shopping...

It's Wednesday. Time for my regularly scheduled thoughts on whatever people are bitching about...

her driver probably quit...

I should preface this by saying that I profoundly dislike California State Senator Carole Migden and her big bag of psychotic bullshit. Judge Judy on crack is not who I want representing me in Sacramento. And I am pretty much willing to publicly endorse any lunatic willing to run against her.
Unlike my padre, I have no problem calling a nut a nut, and this loon needs to be locked in a padded room, not roaming the Bay Area screaming about how fabulous she is.
That’s my job.
So you can imagine my delight at hearing that Carole not only crashed her new Caddy because she was screaming at a minion on her cell phone, but that immediately prior to the accident, a bunch of responsible and no doubt, good-looking motorists called 911 about some freak show driving insanely on the freeway. These great American heroes even followed her ass, she was such a danger to society. They saw the accident, got out of their rides and called her on her shit.
Her response? “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a state senator!”
My favorite part of this article is when the witness says, “There was something wrong with her. I told both the highway patrol and the city police that arrived that either she's drunk or on something.”
If I was Mark Leno, I’d put that shit on t-shirts.
So, just to recap, in case you’re deciding who to vote for, Carole Migden once yelled at my dad, is generally rude to all of God’s creatures and the entirety of her staff looks like their souls have been sucked through their sad, dead, eyes...

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

the greatest website in the world...

Peter Pan for Mayor!
Thank you Brett for the link. Screw you for not telling me sooner...

respect your elders...

I guess we all knew this was coming.
Gavin is going grey.
The stress, the adultery, the booze, the job, the I-Team, the hippies, the papers, the blogs, the 17th century conquistadors… it’s all taken its toll on Gavin coiffure.
And THAT, San Francisco, is the final straw.
What. The. Fuck.
Don’t blame me. My love in unconditional.
We can only hope that the Mayor will follow the example of Mr. George Clooney and parlay this setback into something classy, distinguished and meticulously maintained.
You can see more pictures of Gavin at a playground opening, in obvious panic over his advanced age, HERE. Once again, Bill Wilson captures all the moments I care about.
Pay it forward today and do something nice for a geriatric. You never know. That old man sitting on the park bench feeding the pigeons might just be Gavin…

Saturday, May 19, 2007

i can't change a tire. so what...

I’m not gonna lie. Friday was a shitty day.
(I never talk about work, but as a brief background, I work 11 months a year on an event that takes place over 5 weekends, starting tomorrow. Yesterday was stress.)
And as I emerged from my office, confident that I’d done everything within reason to make my big opening Sunday run as smoothly as possible, I couldn’t wait to get in my car, in my house, into my wine and into whatever restaurant would take a late reservation. You can imagine my disgust at pushing open the back door to find that Rhonda the Honda had the flattest tire in the history of rubber.
It was ridiculous.
I could poke my finger through to the engine.
(Another brief background, I’ve known my tires were shot for months. I procrastinate. It didn’t occur to me my ass would get bit on the Friday before opening. Lesson learned.)
Back to Friday at 5, there was no way I was sticking around Mill Valley waiting for Triple A. I had crappy Rose chilling in the fridge. I needed a shower. And I hated my outfit. It was time to go home. My co-worker Carrie was going to the city. She could give me a ride into civilization.
I abandoned my car in suburbia as Carrie graciously chauffered us to the ghetto. I distinctly remember that as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and I gazed out at the sunset over the Pacific, I thought to myself, “If I was rich, I’d just buy a new car. I’m THAT lazy.”
I insisted Carrie come in for wine (or as she preferred, tea. Don’t say it. I know) and we proceeded to sit around and gossip until Mikey arrived. What with him with his beer and me with my booze, both of us peppering Carrie with rude questions, there was no way she could turn down our offer for dinner. Even when Lo showed up with 57 bottles of Savignon Blanc.
We decided on Hyde Street Bistro, near Carrie’s Nob Hill pied a terre and out of our ghetto.
Carrie’s been hearing about my dining adventures for over a year, no doubt hardly believing a word. I eat and drink as if I have never-ending money and metabolism, although both my sad bank account and Oprah arms speak otherwise. It was fabulous to have Carrie join us on another culinary excursion, and by the time tea-drinker found a parking space, we were on our second bottle.
(A tip from me to you: announce to your waiter that you’re poor and you drink. They have no choice but to recommend the secret staff favorite once you assure them your table for 4 will order enough for 50.)
Drunk on wine, full on coq au vin and thrilled to get out-of-the-office time with Carrie, I collapsed by midnight.
Forgetting about my fucking tire.
I was up by 7, awakened by Lo, our frequent early-rising guest. ‘Oh shit.’ I remembered as I lay in bed. ‘My car.’
Michael, conveniently, was heading back to Chico. He could drive me to suburbia on his way provided we stopped for brunch.
We got up. We showered. We packed our respective bags. We had brunch.
And he dropped me off at the long forgotten flat tire.
“I’m waiting with you.”
“No, go. Go. Triple A will be here in minutes.”
“You sure?”
An hour later, I was sitting in the middle of Mountain View Lane reading the March 2005 Glamour I found in my trunk.
An hour, folks.
An hour.
I’d examined rocks around me. I’d found my senior thesis. I’d texted everyone I knew.
Again, an hour.
Finally, “Cliff” arrived, changing my appallingly flat tire into the ghetto “donut” Rhonda comes with. The donut, incidentally, announced “Temporary Use Only” all over it. No problem, donut. I’m heading to my folks place 5 minutes away. After all, they’re in New York (in the Letterman audience Monday night. I hate them.) and I can crash there, with 2 fancy and insured cars to choose from.
Personality-less Cliff hooked me up, said “Good luck buying tires on a weekend” and left.
Dejected, I drove up the hill to the Spotswood estate and grounds, expecting there to be fancy cheese, top shelf vodka and a convertible I could have access to for the next week.
Mais non.
I have no idea where the vodka/cars are, but they’re not here.
Rhonda and her donut will have to do.
I walked inside, threw my crap by the door and discovered the premium cable was out.
But the best thing about my childhood home, beyond the abundant parking, homemade stock and complex dairy products, is great literature.
I threw off my sneakers, grabbed a glass of cheap white and settled into a chaise on the blazing hot deck with Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook.”
(Again, little known fact: Gavin is my second choice. Tony is my first.)
Rhonda’s still got a donut, I’ve still got to work all day Sunday and I’m still hungover as all get-out. But truth be told, all it really takes to cheer me up is a little Chardonnay and a verbose, foul-mouthed chef

Friday, May 18, 2007

my night with noyes...

Check it out, people. A Friday Culture Blog! You can read all about my backstage adventures with Dan "Bring in the" Noyes right here...

Thursday, May 17, 2007

gel would be too obvious...

Is it just me, or are these totally David Koresh glasses? I can just imagine Gavin in a standoff with the ATF, locking up his minions in the middle of City Hall and throwing grenades made out of Armani Pour Homme out the windows. We can only guess at his list of demands, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t go for the standard cheese pizza, cigarettes and helicopter to a waiting fueled jet.
So, because I’m such a big fan of the Top 5 lists, here are the Top 5 things Gavin Newsom would demand if engaged in a violent standoff with the government:

5. More Armani Pour Homme
4. The entire menu of Bix (lunch and dinner)
3. The entire fall 2007 Prada athletic wear collection
2. 5 cases of O’Doul’s
1. Me, so I could go on the lam with him and live a fabulous and mysterious life in seclusion, a la Bourne Supremacy before the girlfriend gets killed and ruins everything…

*Thanks Bill Wilson for the fabulous photo!

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

viva le dan...

I don't know how this will play out at the Spotswood/Newsom nuptuals, but Noyes is SO invited...

this is not the time to mosey...

San Francisco is in the Top 10 cities with the meanest drivers and I’m hardly surprised. I just returned from purchasing myself lunch and spent 65% of my drive waiting for stupid, slow, perfectly mobile assholes to cross the road.
I was reminded of my brother, a shockingly patient and well-adjusted person who is angered by this offense and this offense only.
“I just need to see some effort. I just need to know that they’re aware of me waiting for them and that they’re moving faster because of it. I don’t need them to break into a sprint, although that would be nice. Just effort. Displayed effort.”
I simply roll my eyes, loudly exhale, honk, etc.
But I think Alex’s point is excellent. Pick up the goddamn pace, trophy wife. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I’m under the legal limit and my foot might be about to slip…

you and i have a date tonight...

You absolutely MUST tune in tonight to Channel 7 for the 6 o'clock news. Dan is once again berating my boyfriend on local television and this time, he's invited me to moniter his movements before, during and after his totally unnecessary rants on my favorite public servant. I even get to bring a photographer to chronicle the evening.
I'll keep you posted on when it'll appear on the Chron Culture Blog, but if you're around to watch, know that I'm hovering in the background, sticking hot pictures of Gavin on people's desks and twirling around on Dan's make-up chair...

is my shipment in yet...

Bill Wilson is a fabulous local photographer who pretty much shadows Gavin wherever he goes and then sticks it on the internet. I try and find one treasure every morning to kick my day off. I can't encourage you enough to explore Bill's website and see Gavin in all of his glory, from every angle, in every outfit. I know I give him a hard time occasionally, but it's out of love.
Deep, profound, undying love...

Friday, May 11, 2007


Dear guy about to cheat on his wife at the bar last night,
I couldn’t help but notice your impending adultery because my family was running obscenely behind schedule and left me and my Gibson sitting alone, looking like I was stood up by someone that found a better date. I was forced to observe and judge those around me and you and your mistress were closest in proximity. Most sleezeball, poorly dressed cheaters have the sense to remove their (tacky, ornate) wedding ring prior to wooing. As a woman in her late, late 20’s, my eyes immediately fly to the left hands of all men. I can’t help it. Society makes me. And your glowing, diamond encrusted monstrosity is hard to miss, even through the haze of your cheap cologne.
Your date didn’t seem to mind. Maybe her huge kerchief blocked the view of anything beneath her chin. I can’t be sure. But she was clearly not your wife and clearly not a friend/co-working/daughter. I can only hope that my disapproving glares made you feel like the douchebag that you are, and that your wife, if she has any brains, will walk away with more than half of everything you ever owned.
All your turtleneck/blazer combo was missing was a gold medallion and cowboy boots. And your delicate date, who looked like a small gust of wind might break a rib, was working body language which clearly said, ‘Oh god. What the hell am I doing?’
I am certain your evening ended with an awkward goodbye, a thwarted ass-grab and a last minute head turn so as to avoid your creepy old man mouth.
Everyone thinks you’re an asshole.
Most sincerely,

Thursday, May 10, 2007

happy birthday biscuit...

Today is my brother's 24th birthday! He's the greatest brother in the history of siblings and the cutest little biscuit this side of Biloxi.
Beth's Boss: "Biscuit? Who are you talking about?"
Beth's co-worker: "That's what she calls Alex."
Beth's Boss: "Biscuit? Really? He's pretty big for a biscuit."

i love what you've done with your trailer...

It’s advice time again. Ripped from the pages of Dear Abby, I’m offering my thoughts on the problems of my fellow Americans. Joining me in judgment is Brett, former and future blogger, currently representing the red states. Enjoy:

DEAR Spots and Brett: I have a 4-year-old who tends to act up from time to time. I have tried "time-outs" and even soft spanking and have taken his privileges away. Nothing seems to work. However, I have found that smashing one of his small toys with a hammer works well. Do you see any danger in this form of punishment? -- YOUNG MOM IN OKLAHOMA

Dear Krystal/Jolene/Tonya, etc.,
I’m going to go ahead and assume the father of this future school shooter is out of the picture, either incarcerated or plotting some kind of anti-government civil war. And the only male role models this kid has are the cast of toothless, tank top wearers who treat you like you treat toys.
Lucky for you, I recently watched PBS’s Frontline. The subject? Parenticide. I learned that psychological abuse is equally if not more powerful than physical and/or sexual abuse. So maybe next time he “acts up,” you could set him on fire or rape him with a household object. That might be better than, say, teaching him that the way to get people to do what you want them to is to smash something they love with a hammer.
Your pal,

Dear Shouldn't Have Slept with a Football Player in High School,
That's what you get for living in Oklahoma. You grow up to be a 19 year old wal-mart clerk with a 4 year old redneck in training. My advice? Take precious little Timmy Joe or Jimmy Bob or Johnny Earl (or whatever else you named him after his professional oil changer of a father) to child services, and place him up for adoption. Insist, however, that he only be adopted by either a homosexual couple or a hollywood starlet attempting to rehab her image. In this manner, you will not only provide a glimmer of hope that Timmyjoejimmybobjohnnyearl can overcome his Nascar/Oklahoma football/southern baptist brain washing, but it will free you up for a life reclamation plan. This plan will consist of day classes at ITT Tech in medical transcription, followed by exotic dancing at "Cloud 9" or "Nighttrips" or "Temptations", provided you have lost the baby weight 4 years down the road.
Oh, as to your original question, "Do you see any danger in this form of punishment", the answer is no, at least not until your son begins hearing the voice of god, and follows your lead by smashing things with a hammer. Like your cranium. And his future.

Monday, May 07, 2007

i can totally caddy...

I would just like to say, I could not be happier to live in a city where we have THIS as Mayor. I don’t know which is better: the golf pose or the group shot with Mr. Samantha Jones.
Yes I do.
It’s the golf pose.
Let’s examine.
Um, nice pants. Did he get those at International Male? Because I love it. I love everything. I love the hips. I love the timepiece. I love the shades. I love the glove. And above all, I love that he’s pretending to look at something.
Hey Gavin. It’s at your feet.
The other photo annoys me because Swiss Miss is always described as an actress. If I were Swiss Miss, and some days I wish I was, I would insist upon being described as the woman the Mayor is fucking. I would have t-shirts made. I would put it on my license plate. I would get a goddamn tattoo.
But I guess how people are listed is up to CBig, in which case, Hey CBig! She ain't no actress…

Friday, May 04, 2007

i'm bringing sexy back...

I had no idea that banana slugs were filled with such complex organs. For some reason, I just (incorrectly) assumed they were filled with mush and slime.
Thankfully, recent circumstances have made me aware of this interesting fact.
I woke up this morning and made my way to the computer on the sun porch, per my usual routine. I was barefoot, as people tend to be 10 seconds after getting out of bed. And suddenly, in an instant, my life changed forever.
Between toes 2 through 5 on my left foot, I killed a slug. I’m amazed the neighbors didn’t call the cops, I was screaming so loudly. I flung my foot in the air, as entrails flew against the back door, slug intestines and similar stuck to the wood. Half of the slug’s body lay on the floor, with some long vein coming out of it, and there was a puddle of army green-colored liquid at the site of impact. The remainder of the corpse was between my toes.
I dramatically hopped to the kitchen sink (yes, where we eat) and stuck my foot under the faucet, dumping Trad’r Joe’s kitchen soap on my toes in a panicked frenzy. Let me tell you people, that slime is tough to get off.
The worst part is that I didn’t immediately clean it up. I waited for Mikey to emerge from the shower and then insisted he come onto the sun porch because I had to show him “something.”
The feeling of the slug between my toes, lo these hours later, continues to stay with me. After Mikey dry heaved over my kill, I promptly 409’d everything in sight and hands covered in 78 paper towels, deposited the remains outdoors.
Have a great weekend…

Thursday, May 03, 2007

hummm baby...

After Big Chris announced on Sunday that he wouldn’t lower himself to sit anywhere at PacBell except Club Level, my roommate jumped at the chance to score some seats for Monday nights Giants game.
Club Level, if you’re like me and needed it explained, is the relatively fancy section of the ballpark where you can get food and booze delivered and they have full bars and classier bathrooms. We cabbed it over and settled in just in time for the 7 o’clock game again the Diamondbacks, which I assumed was meant as some derogatory tern for Native Americans.
Apparently, it’s a snake.
Anyway, I soon noticed that Club Level must mean Douchebag Level, because we were seating around the saddest collection of date rapers in all of San Francisco. In front of us were a Belushi-esque twosome, the highlight of their lives clearly the time they fixed the kegerator at homecoming. Both were clad in weathered Giants apparel, high-fiving their nervous neighbors, screaming at the churro chick and double fisting beer.
I shouldn’t judge the double fisting booze thing, actually. I ordered a “double” Savignon Blanc.
Behind us was the co-ed contingent from the Marina, dressed as if they’d come from their very own J. Crew catalog shoot and engrossed in a discussion of their various MySpace pages. I was highly distracted by the cesspool of humanity around me until I noticed HIM.
Or rather, THEM.
Um, the Giants are hot.
Barry Bonds is hideous and disgusting, but otherwise, them’s some fine ballplayers. I was almost proud. I mean, I’m willing to bet, based on Monday’s observations, that San Francisco has the hottest sports teams.
Sure there’s the rogue fox in professional sports, your occasional Tom Brady.
But let’s face it. Jeter breaks mirrors.
And might I remind everyone, San Francisco was home to my cohort in immense sexual tension, Steve Young.
I realize I’m mixing my sports here (you should be grateful I’m even aware) but I’m guessing the Bay Area has a lot of sexually frustrated women in their 40’s running the front offices….

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

gavin the fashionista...

Yeah, I know. It's Wednesday!

basically, it involves barak gardening...

It is 5:49 am PST and I am wide awake.
Let’s see. After a late work meeting and a promise to swing by my folks for a quick dinner, I was so exhausted, I decided to crash here. My parents live a mere 5 minutes from my office. I live through tunnels and across bridges and deep in the ghetto 45 minutes away. Also, conveniently my brother has moved to the city but his room has been kept in pristine, museum-like livability. No jammies? No problem. Alex has left behind 834 t-shirts, a mere third of his collection. His dresser is still filled with perfectly folded boxers and sweatpants.
Who the hell is folding his clothes all of a sudden?
My mother, who never once changed my sheets in our 18 years of cohabitation was suddenly stripping Alex’s bed, applying fresh, cozy flannel ones instead.
“What are you doing?” I asked, while digging through my brother’s drawers.
“Eh, I felt like changing them.”
I can’t even get in trouble for parking at the top of the driveway anymore, pulling Rhonda the Honda into the laziest parking space in all of Mill Valley and blocking in everyone else. This used to be a crime punishable by fund withholding. Now, no one says a word. I hesitate to even type this, as it was such a former point of contention. But it’s so amazing, it needs to be said.
Dinner was a fabulous non-seafood paella. Non-seafood. Because I don’t eat seafood. Gone are the days of forced fish consumption and angry, untouched crustaceans staring back at me. Beth doesn’t eat seafood. So no one eats seafood.
There is even a bottle of Pinot Noir placed by the front door, where it will no doubt be joined by leftover NON-SEAFOOD paella all packaged together by my father who might even go so far as to pull his old school lunch bag routine and write trivia questions on the bag. (The answers, in case you’re wondering, are on the other side.)
I can’t believe this place that I was desperate to get the hell out of has suddenly become the classiest hotel I’ve ever had the pleasure of patronizing.
I tossed on a Marin Catholic Class of 2001 t-shirt and crawled into my brothers cozy, clean bed, ready to resume my weird yet non sexual dreams about Barak Obama. I slept like a baby until I heard that familiar, comforting pitter patter of rain on the roof.
Then I remembered.
Oh shit.
I left all of my car windows down.
Because I was parked at the top of the goddamn driveway.
I live in the ghetto, folks. Anytime I don’t have to lock my car up like a vault, I take advantage of.
I lay there listening to the rain, imagining it fill the interior of my precious Rhonda. I couldn’t take it anymore. I tip-toed out of bed and made my way downstairs. My flip flops had been placed by the door, right by the hall closet. I reached my hand in, feeling around for the biggest, most water proof coat I could find.
Ooooh, Burberry. I’m wearing this.
So in flip flops and a fancy raincoat, I ran out into the pitch black pouring rain and down the very slippery stone steps to my car. The inside was indeed soaked, much like myself and my mother’s coat. I rolled those windows up, slammed the door and spun around.
And there, blocking my path as if in a scene from Harry Potter, was a snake.
A small, harmless, garden snake.
But a fucking snake.
By the time I made it back inside, hung the precious coat, kicked of my dripping flops and headed upstairs, I was up. Wide awake. And practically showered.
Which is why I am sitting at my dad’s computer, writing my blog ay 6:19am, PST…

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

i prefer honey bunches of oats...

If I were in the hospital with second degree burns on my face, neck and hands because the truck I was driving burst into flames, melted an entire freeway and fucked everyone's commute, I would hope that my family would submit a better photo than THIS to the Associated Press.
Did these people have nothing better than a photo of their beloved James pouring himself some frosted wheat puffs and looking frightened by a camera? And what about this moment needed to be captured in the first place? There's no James happilly sitting by a Christmas tree or James playing with an adorable child or even James looking all cracked out on the heroin he apparently was once addicted to.
All we get is James pouring himself some frosted wheat puffs and giving us a look that seems to say, "Why the fuck are you taking a picture of me right now?"
He probably slammed down that cereal, grabbed the camera, got in his truck and...